Making Friends with Strange Cats
by Mertiya
Summary: Bruce Wayne, Gotham City's newest superhero, has an intimate encounter with a pretty young thief.  Batman/Catwoman in the early days.  Mild smut.


**A/N: **I have not actually read any of the early comics about Batman's and Catwoman's relationship. Thus I offer up this meager little piece, my thoughts on how it _could_ have all gotten started, with the hopes you'll forgive any continuity errors. Please R&R!**  
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**Making Friends with Strange Cats**

"_You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats." ~Colonial proverb_

Alfred was awake, as he always was, when young Mister Bruce returned. Dawn was streaking the sky, and Alfred, perhaps rationally, perhaps irrationally, was worried. He was still not certain if this "Batman" persona was a passing fad or was truly something that Bruce would continue doing. And he was not certain whether it was something he wanted Bruce to continue doing, or not. At one level, it sounded truly insane—dressing up as a giant rodent to fight crime at night; masquerading as a millionaire playboy during the day. And yet—crime was dropping. Alfred had been keeping a discreet finger on the pulse of the city to the best of his ability, and it really seemed as if Bruce Wayne were making a difference. But already it was taking its toll on the young man. He seemed tired and listless most hours, often dozing off or forgetting what he was doing.

Tonight, he looked more done-in than ever, stripping off his mask and shirt to reveal to his concerned manservant a motley collection of bruises and four parallel scratches—quite deep, still bleeding—across his chest.

"Good morning, Alfred," Bruce said tiredly.

"Hectic night, eh, sir?"

Bruce gave him a tired smile. "You could say that."

_Break-in at the Gotham Museum, following close on the heels of stopping a mugger from attacking a terrified young woman lugging an oversize pram back to her house. He'd been feeling more and more disillusioned lately, and so very, very tired. This was harder than he'd thought it would be. Somehow he had expected more satisfaction in a job well done._

_ When he reached the museum, he saw her, fleeing from the scene through a disused trapdoor to the roof, the stolen necklace winking brightly at her throat. The cat burglar in the leather bodysuit with the whip. They'd crossed paths a few times already._

"May I offer you a massage, sir?"

Bruce flung himself down onto the bed. "I wouldn't say no, Alfred."

"And may I ask, sir, why you appear particularly perturbed this evening—pardon, morning?"

"You may ask."

Alfred noted the unusual glow in Bruce's cheekbones as he bent over the young man.

_Cornered her, finally. Never cornered her properly before. Still trying too hard to get used to his new territory, but not this time. This time he had her on the roof, her bull-whip skittering from her clutching hand, her torso pinned firmly beneath his legs as sirens screamed in the background_.

Alfred's hands kneaded along the creases in Bruce's spine. "You know, Mister Wayne, you don't feel as tense as you usually do."

"Don't I?" Was that a touch of—embarrassment—in the boy's voice? Alfred glanced back over at the bat-suit, which was flung carelessly over a chair where Bruce had discarded it. There were marks of scratches and dirt along the arms, from elbow to wrist. Glancing down, he noticed similar marks from the knees to the feet of the rest of the costume.

"You've been quite active tonight, sir. You'd better be careful, you wouldn't want to wear out the costume."

Bruce pushed his face deeply into the pillow and allowed the manservant to continue massaging him. "It won't happen again," he said gruffly.

_"Well now." It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was surprisingly low and throaty. "For a giant flying rodent, you're surprisingly friendly," she continued, and with a slight tinge of horror, he realized—he was very interested in her. His blood had been pumping heavily in his ears, singing through his chest already, and the outfit she wore, despite covering almost everything from her ears to her toes, left very little to the imagination. Even as he realized this and felt the heat of embarrassment rising along the back of his neck to his ears (and that wasn't the only thing that was rising), she gave a languid stretch and nonchalantly pulled the zipper of her costume down almost to her belly button, exposing a fair expanse of pale, well-fleshed skin._

Bruce squirmed under Alfred's ministrations.

"Did tonight go poorly, sir?"

"Yes," Bruce said shortly. "The cat burglar played her hand again."

"She escaped yet again?"

_Selina Kyle hadn't had much planned for the evening. She'd figured, get in, grab the catspaw diamond, get out, avoiding masked vigilantes as necessary. But close up, she could see the fine, chiseled line of his jaw, and she could feel the muscles rippling beneath the cartoonish costume. No wannabe, this guy. Pretty young, though. She could tell, from the sudden, distracted interest and the slight hesitation and uncertainty she still felt. She was young, too. But she'd been out in the world for a long time. Sometimes she felt old._

_ Right now, though, she was feeling something she hadn't felt in a long time. What had begun as a poorly-thought-out distraction plan was turning into something far too serious for comfort, as she pushed herself up onto her elbows and kissed the Bat on the mouth._

"Eventually."

_Her hands reached the back of his head even as his tongue began to explore her mouth, gingerly at first, then more and more forcefully. She reached for the mask, but he caught her hand and shook his head, and then she understood. Playfully, she nipped at his bottom lip and let her hands drop to the golden belt around his waist._

"Alfred," Bruce said, sitting up abruptly. "Have you ever done something—and not known why?"

Alfred crossed to the window, pulling the drapes shut. "Occasionally I have, now that you mention it."

"Dare I ask?"

"Usually such things were associated with the trappings—or the act—of love."

_He didn't know who she was, but he had her trapped beneath him now, and his hands, almost without his own volition, were drawing down the shoulders of her catsuit. She still looked at him from behind the mask with a kind of sultry pout, tempered by amusement, and it made him angry. The little smile, the little dimple indented at the corner of her mouth—he wanted them gone._

_ Her hands were cold on his now-bare thighs as she guided him gently forward, and, again, he raged. What right had she to guide him at all, little sneak-thief in the night? Little cat who danced across the rooftops and hid in the darkness, caring for no one and nothing but profit?_

_ He grunted as he thrust into her, the first sound that he had made the whole evening. Her quiet gasp was both rewarding and bewildering. Her willingness, as she threw back her head and clutched him around the neck, was similarly compelling._

"Alfred, am I fooling you at all?" Bruce asked bluntly.

"Fooling me about what, sir?" Alfred retorted, a twinkle in his eye.

Bruce Wayne sighed and slid into a sitting position on the bed. "Alfred, before tonight I thought I was crazy. Now I know it."

"Love, in its purest form, _is_ insanity, if you'll pardon the maudlin sentiment."

_He held her gently, more gently than she'd expected, though his movements within her were strong enough. She felt herself vibrating with longing and lust and something else, almost a purr that reverberated through her whole body as her ecstacy grew. The world seemed to break apart into a flurry of sensations—his hands on her face, tight and strong and almost reassuring; her hands, snaking under his mask to tease gently at the soft, sweat-covered hair. The sounds he made, none of them even close to words, nothing but feral grunts and sighs and yet— The feel, exhilarating despite the pain, of her back crunching against the dirty, uneven roof. The sight, as her eyes sprang open for an instant, of his naked face—so much more naked than anything else that evening, though he wore a mask and her bodysuit was now entirely tangled up beneath her._

_ She felt him climax first, his knees and arms tightening about her in utter silence, and for a moment, she felt clean and safe and protected. And, like the gentleman she'd thought he'd be, he didn't stop, but continued until her own muscles tightened and the dopamine flooded through her brain, electrifying her system and pouring through her veins like liquid fire._

_ She had never felt so clean._

There was confusion, almost desperation, written in Bruce's form as he crossed to the window. "What about love in its basest form, Alfred? What then?"

_But she had turned to him in the darkness as he pulled away from her with a shock. With a genuine little laugh, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, a surprisingly chaste gesture after what had just transpired. She pressed something into his hand, wriggled back into her catsuit, and leaped for the next building, calling back over her shoulder, "Thanks for a lovely evening!"_

_ He looked down. In his hand was the three-million-dollar necklace._

Alfred put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, at first, it's difficult to know what words to use."


End file.
